


To Myself I Turn

by RonRos47



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:47:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonRos47/pseuds/RonRos47
Summary: We all have secrets. Some are easier to hide than others. Emma Swan deals with a situation that most people wouldn't understand.Trigger Warning: self injury, cutting, self harm, depression





	To Myself I Turn

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to quote Mary Margaret here and say, "The truth can be painful but it can also be cathartic." It was from those words that I also gained the strength I needed to write down this fic. I am not a talker, for the most part. A lot of the time I let my writing do my talking for me. And what better way than to write, I guess an AU story, where a character that I love on a show I enjoy, deals with something that I struggle with on a daily basis. Was it painful to write, certainly but it was also helpful, a way of letting my pain work vicariously through a character that Adam & Edward created, so that I may work on my own healing processes.
> 
> So to all of you struggling out there- the road we're on isnt' easy. There are times when we will stumble and fall but the important thing is we get up the next day and we move forward and fight like hell to make it out of our battles alive.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Deals with the topic of self-injury as well as some depression. I do go into some details in regards to certain things like the ritualistic behavior that comes from being an SI.

Published: 11-12-12, Updated: 11-12-12

*****  
Thoughts raged in her mind. A restless sleep occurred the night before. Her time in Storybrooke had been anything but pleasant since her arrival nearly five months ago.

Emma knew it was only a matter of time. She was alone, other than living with Mary Margaret and having Henry in her life, she felt isolated still, cut off, sometimes the feeling of disassociation weighed heavily upon her. She could feel it coming, that need, that desire of taking control in a way that most people probably wouldn't understand. She hated the feeling but sometimes there was nothing she could do and sometimes there was that rare glimmer where she welcomed the feeling because she did have control, at least over this.

Mary Margaret wouldn't be home today. There was a school function from what she had told her earlier. Good. No one to answer to, no getting caught.

It was late in the evening when Emma reached for the box under her bed. It was a blue stationary box with a flower in the center. She took it over to the desk and sat down. Touching the box she hesitated for a moment. No, she needed this. She had been without it for five months. Both the need and the desire were too great now, the thoughts and the fantasies running through her mind like a never ending cycle. She needed the movie in her mind to stop.

Emma opened the latch of the stationary box. She removed the note cards. Underneath them was a small green wash cloth. She removed that and found the contents of her desire: a screw driver, a pair of blue sharp scissors, alcohol prep pads, and some extra large band aids and sterile strips.

She sighed in relief, grateful that her tools were still in their rightful place. One by one she pulled out each item and began her ritual: First the sterilizing, then searching for the right place and then she began.

To her the feel of the blade on her skin was like the moving of a bow on a violin, back and forth, back and forth. Music to numb her ire and racing thoughts, the pain and the tingling to give her a focus and take her mind off of the focus where she did not want it to be. It was the high she needed, the fix that for months she had been forced to deny.

Emma Swan was no stranger to this form of behavior. Growing up in the foster system hadn't been easy. In a short amount of time she had learned not to complain but also learned to be silent. Silence came with a price. Though it could be a gift, the silence could also be a curse. The good thing was no one could see your pain if you kept silent about it. The bad thing was no one could see your pain if you kept silent about it.

For sixteen years Emma suffered in silence. If it wasn't the blade doing the talking it was the wall, both of which had become forms to express her pain over the years. It was easier than talking but there was a price to pay from them both in terms of the nerve damage and the scars.

She knew she should stop. She had reason to but stopping wasn't easy. She had tried time and time again, making empty promises to herself that she never kept.

The first part of the ritual continued for another five minutes. Then after looking over her work and feeling mentally sound and satisfied, she began the second part of her ritual: pull the tabs off the band aids, the cuts weren't deep enough to require stitches, she never allowed it to get that far but they were deep enough to bleed and she was certain these would scar. Second, pull out another alcohol swab and clean her tool to get rid of the trace evidence that the blood had left behind on the metal blade, and finally the rest of the clean up and placing her tools in the proper order before placing the cards back on top of the wash cloth. Close the lid of the box and place it back under the bed.

Emma smiled to herself. It had been such a relief to let go and simply feel numb for a while. The throbbing would start in a couple of seconds but she didn't mind, at least it gave her more of that high that she had endured while doing her task but the smile was more than just about letting go. This was her personal pleasure, a secret no one knew and in that was a personal satisfaction.

Pleased with her task and with herself, Emma lie in bed and drifted off to what she hoped would be a relaxing sleep, minus the throbbing from her wounds. She could handle that. At least they would keep the nightmares at bay.

*****

Make up sponges lined scattered on the dresser. Caps lie near them from open makeup bottles and open make up compacts. A typical woman thing, at least for most people. For Emma Swan it was anything but typical.

She stood in front of her mirror in her sweat pants and tank top shirt. The band-aids from the night before had been removed to give them some air but also so that she may see how bad the damage was. It was something someone could never get used to, not really.

There was a love/hate relationship she had with both the scars and the fresh cuts. She felt prideful of the old scars. They were her battle scars and proof that the pain she was suffering was real and not just in her head. They were proof that she had made it through alive.

There was also the hatred. She hated the way her scars looked. The way some of them lined her arms like the tracks that line a railroad. Those she could handle, for the most part. It was the seven scars that lined her chest a little above her breasts that she could not bear to look at, a reminder that because of the amount of scars on her arm she had been forced to choose another location.

Some would argue no one forced her to do anything. They were wrong. Unless a person had been through it themselves no one could really understand. No one could understand the desperation that it took to inflict pain on one's self, no one could understand the many reasons why: why it was easier to take the pain out on yourself rather than take it out on someone else as a way of not hurting them, why the urge was constant and when life tossed you around sometimes you needed an escape that went beyond simply confiding in another person, and why despite the urges and constant need for a fix that it was the only thing that seemed to make any sense and ground you if that's what you wanted, to bring you back down after going through a period of disassociation.

The disassociation was often the worst. That feeling of just going through the motions of life but you not feeling connected to your body. Almost as if you were floating above it and watching your body move, on the outside looking in but not feeling, not being a part of it.

Next to the makeup were a few boxes of wound closure strips and different sized band-aids. Normally she wouldn't have bothered but with the cuts still fresh and oozing a bit she didn't want to run the risk of the blood or fluids seeping into her shirt and then having to explain it or brush it off like it was nothing.  
Emma began her ritual, handling her fresh wounds first, covering them with some band-aids, two on her chest, two on her upper left arm, and one on her right forearm. Once those were taken care of Emma moved to the concealers on the dresser.

It was an everyday ritual, using the make-ups to cover the scars. Sometimes she wouldn't have bothered but now that she no longer lived alone and was around people who she believe genuinely cared or some who were more curious about her than anything, she couldn't risk taking any chances.

*****

Emma came downstairs, all ready dressed in a turtle neck and jeans.

"You're in a good mood," Mary Margaret said handing her friend a cup of chocolate.

Emma smiled. "It was a good night."

"Really, what'd you do?"

"Absolutely nothing for once," Emma replied taking a sip of her chocolate. "That's what was so great about it."

She took another sip and placed the cup on the counter. She walked over to the coat mount and grabbed her red jacket. She winced a little as she reached for it, a side effect from the night before. Given how many she had done it wasn't like the pain would go away over night. She smiled at the pain. Though her body registered it, it also gave her a high and for a second she relived the moment of what she had done.

"You okay?" Mary Margaret asked.

Emma grabbed her jacket and turned around as she placed it on. "Yeah I'm fine why?"

Mary Margaret shrugged it off. "No reason. Have a good day at work."

Emma smiled, "You too," she replied.

Closing the door behind her Emma stopped and took a deep breath. She couldn't help but fear that Snow had caught her but when she didn't say anything she was relived. Taking a second deep breath Emma made her way down stairs.

She would focus on her work today now that her personal issues had been dealt with.

*****  
The day hadn't gone fast enough for Emma. Aside from some mild paperwork there hadn't been much for her to do.

A case did arrive for her on her desk in the afternoon which gave her a nice distraction, something to focus her mind on rather than simply on the cuts on her arms which from time to time she would forget were even there. Occasionally her mind would replay the events of last night or the events of the morning. At least the repeated movie gave her a center point, something to center on rather than turning her mind to the thoughts she did not want.

Regina had come into the office. It was part of the reason for her new case file. Supposedly a young miscreant had been stealing and Regina wanted to make sure the sheriff was doing her job and would stay on top of it.

*****

The day had been too slow. Mary Margaret wasn't home when Emma got off work. She took this free time to jump in the shower and clear her mind.

She hadn't seen Henry today due to Regina's gag order. They had talked via walkie but it wasn't the same. She still wanted to see her kid. Emma knew she would find a way. Regina's orders hadn't stopped her before but this time was slightly different. If Emma didn't comply, Regina would get the courts involved and things could get very messy. She couldn't do that to Henry. It was bad enough that she and his adoptive mother were constantly battling each other. The kid didn't need to be part of a full-fledged war.

Emma stood under the water, eyes closed, and let the spray hit her. It felt nice but the water stung on her freshly made cuts. They were still less than twenty-four hours old. Emma welcomed the sting. She enjoyed the head rush it brought to her, the equivalent of blood rushing to one's head when laying with the head dangling over the side of the bed.

She let herself go, not focused on time, only focused as the water cleansed her for the day.

*****

Running her brush through her hair, Emma looked up and saw Mary Margaret sitting at the table with a book and a cup of chocolate.

"I didn't hear you come home," Emma said being the first one to speak up.

"I thought about knocking to let you know but I didn't want to disturb," Mary Margaret began and then looked up at Emma. She froze for a second, both women did. "You," she finished.

Emma stood completely frozen. She was wearing nothing but her under clothes, a tank and a pair of sweats. Emma knew what Mary Margaret was seeing. Scars and freshly red cuts.

'Damn it,' Emma thought to herself.

Though the thought of cutting or the mental reminder that the scars and cuts were still there always fresh in her mind, in a single moment it was also easy to forget about them; to know the truth but also be oblivious to them as to her they were no big deal.

She hadn't taken fresh band-aids into the restroom with her because she had planned on letting them air dry a bit and she hadn't planned on Mary Margaret being home. Emma thought now that her shower had been longer than she intended.

Mary Margaret stood up and took a step toward her roommate.

"Emma," she said reaching for the woman's arm.

Emma pulled back, "It's nothing," she lied.

"This is not nothing. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't have to explain myself. Just let it go all right?"

"You think I can let something like this just go?"

"Trust me it's not that hard," Emma said making her way to the steps.

Mary Margaret followed. "Emma please, talk to me about this. We're roommates, friends, heck practically family. It's what you said remember? So please, talk to me."

Emma turned and looked at Mary Margaret. Yes, Mary Margaret was all those things but like Emma had told her once before, they were family. Emma regretted that now. For so long she had grown up without a family, without people truly giving a damn about her and now here was a woman who was genuinely concerned for her safety and well being. That was a first.

Emma sighed. "Fine, just give me a minute okay?"

Mary Margaret nodded and walked over to the counter while Emma went upstairs.

While in her room, Emma placed new band-aids on her now 24-hour cuts to protect them from rubbing against anything or the fabric from her shirt and then changed into a long sleeve shirt, one that was more comfortable for night sleeping.

Though Mary Margaret had seen all of them, Emma didn't want to hurt the woman more by having to look at them much less judge her for it.

*****

Coming downstairs without a word, Emma went for the liquor shelf and grabbed a scotch whiskey and a couple of glasses.

She sat in the chair, uncomfortable, feeling like a child about to be scolded for bad behavior. She wasn't good at this, opening up to people, she did not know how to start or where to begin.

Emma took a deep breath. "What do you want to know?"

Mary Margaret looked at her. "I'm not exactly sure. I'm sorry Emma, I didn't know."

"No one does, after a while it becomes easier to hide, to make excuses for it."

"When did it start?"

"It started when I was twelve. Growing up in the foster system isn't the most ideal situation. A lot of the homes I was in weren't pleasant. I was kept around mostly for the monthly check but I never really mattered to any of them. It started as a way of dealing with that and over time as life got harder the pain escalated and it became an easy way out, sort of my go to escape hatch, the one thing I could control when everything else around me was being tossed around."

"You never told anyone, a friend, a teacher?"

"There was no point. It was easier to suffer in silence. And if I told someone they would just report it and the social workers would've gotten involved. Sometimes in the case where a child hurts themselves the social worker automatically assumes abuse. I had enough of a hard time in the system as it was, even at a young age I knew I didn't want to bring more trouble than I all ready was or the trouble I was getting into."

"Have you tried to stop?"

Emma looked down at her glass and swirled the cup. "Sure I have. I've gone maybe at least a year or two without it but then something happens, I get triggered and it starts right back up again." She shook her head. "I know this is probably hard to hear. That's why I didn't want to bring it up. I don't want to burden you with my problems. No one should have to deal with a person like me."

"A person like you," Mary Margaret asked. "You mean?"

"A cutter," Emma said saying the words that her friend couldn't. The words were easy for her. She had said them aloud a dozen times to herself before.

Mary Margaret reached over and grabbed Emma's hand. "You are not a burden and regardless of what you may think, you do matter to people. You matter to Henry, you matter to me."

Emma looked up at Mary Margaret with some tears in her eyes. She was good at determining if people were telling the truth and it was clear to her that Mary Margaret was telling the truth.

"You're not alone anymore," Mary Margaret added.

Now Emma's tears were really starting to flow as she smiled and tightened her grip on Mary Margaret's hand.

"Thank you," she said to her.

Mary Margaret smiled and Emma went into a small reverie.

Maybe things would get better. She knew she would try a lot harder. The fights with herself and the urges were painful. Sometimes it was easier to just give into the urge and let it take over. It was a never ending battle and maybe it always would be. There would be relapses as this recent one had been but always she could move forward and be reminded that yes she was alive and that yes, she now truly had people who cared and depended on her.

The upside to this was that she was no longer alone. It had been painful to tell Mary Margaret the truth of her cutting but it had also been cathartic- words that Mary Margaret herself had used but words that rang true to Emma whenever she thought of them. Mary Margaret had simply asked a few questions and listened. No judgment passed, no looking at her as if she was a different person. In her eyes she was still just Emma Swan.

Emma wouldn't stop just for the sake of Mary Margaret or for Henry, a lot of times it didn't work like that. She had to stop for herself and she was willing to try.

*****

~END~


End file.
